Rest These Weary Wearies.
"No words can express the ache. No dictionary's defined this destitution. You make me feel infra-red. Like a black spot at a steady 7.34 degrees centigrade. This color on my cheeks is corn syrup and red dye sprayed with compressed air. The twinkle in my eye is a well-placed splotch of white. My lips are marzipan. Saccharine sweetness makes for a warm spiciness in this mouth, and I hope it's worth it. Truly, I pray it's enough, because, if you utilized a vegetable peeler on this glistening skin, the blast of cold air from beneath this chrysalis would be enough to warp and augment the Japanese steel of your" - I started writing this and hated it. Someone else can take over if they want?
His breath smells like the slaughter as he breaths on me from above. I flex my rebellious arms at my side and wait for the big bang. There's a sting like a crumpling wound and it's begun again. I do my best to concentrate on the swirling colors of the ceiling instead of my own shame.
I'm in a new reality now and String Theory states I can head back to the rest of my own rancid life at any given time, but the only thing coming from my scrunched up eyes are hot and unfamiliar wetness, a proclamation of my inferiority.
I open my eyes for a second and the colors are still there. Those temperamental hues giggle from behind their beige hands and I'm in Okinawa. It's too much and the scent of steam in the air is too much. I slam closed these doors of mine own indiscretion and I scent the murdered magnolia before I see it, spinning in a bed of stars and stars and stars; and slowly, but steadily, the scarlet rain is on slow-release painting the petals like macabre spin-art. I'm jerked back into reality by a hand on my face. I can feel the son of a bitch's sweaty hand on my flank. No no no. I can't go back. I concentrate until it hurts and I'm sure there's a furious artery splitting my forehead in two like Lucifer's Yin Yang, but it works.
There's a specific tingling in my ankles and I'm contemporary. I find myself deep in the toxic atmosphere of Venus. I wear a headdress of needles. I scrunch my nose at the smell of sulfur dioxide. Ghostly steel and iron or bronze make up my flesh and just as I'm beginning to feel exceedingly paranormal, my ectoplasm fades away like summer heat and I hear a distinct grunt. There's pain again, and he breathes heavy for thirty-four seconds before rolling off of me.
He gets up and leaves, and I sleep in a stranger's home. Reality is a strong and pungent crack in my nostrils eleven hours later. Chastity tarnished on LSD.
His breath smells like the slaughter as he breaths on me from above. I flex my rebellious arms at my side and wait for the big bang. There's a sting like a crumpling wound and it's begun again. I do my best to concentrate on the swirling colors of the ceiling instead of my own shame.
I'm in a new reality now and String Theory states I can head back to the rest of my own rancid life at any given time, but the only thing coming from my scrunched up eyes are hot and unfamiliar wetness, a proclamation of my inferiority.
I open my eyes for a second and the colors are still there. Those temperamental hues giggle from behind their beige hands and I'm in Okinawa. It's too much and the scent of steam in the air is too much. I slam closed these doors of mine own indiscretion and I scent the murdered magnolia before I see it, spinning in a bed of stars and stars and stars; and slowly, but steadily, the scarlet rain is on slow-release painting the petals like macabre spin-art. I'm jerked back into reality by a hand on my face. I can feel the son of a bitch's sweaty hand on my flank. No no no. I can't go back. I concentrate until it hurts and I'm sure there's a furious artery splitting my forehead in two like Lucifer's Yin Yang, but it works.
There's a specific tingling in my ankles and I'm contemporary. I find myself deep in the toxic atmosphere of Venus. I wear a headdress of needles. I scrunch my nose at the smell of sulfur dioxide. Ghostly steel and iron or bronze make up my flesh and just as I'm beginning to feel exceedingly paranormal, my ectoplasm fades away like summer heat and I hear a distinct grunt. There's pain again, and he breathes heavy for thirty-four seconds before rolling off of me.
He gets up and leaves, and I sleep in a stranger's home. Reality is a strong and pungent crack in my nostrils eleven hours later. Chastity tarnished on LSD.